ONIGIRI COULD BE NONE BUT A BALL OF RICE, UNTIL YOU’VE HAD A REAL ONIGIRI AND REALIZED WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT…
A BALL OF REALLY GOOD RICE
The weather in Beijing is driving me mad. Rainy, swampy, relentlessly brownish grey. In all the fond days that I’ve been in this dump, all five years and counting, the summers have never been this wet. Soaking wet. I mean let’s face it, nothing here is pleasant to begin with I’ll give you that. But for this region, a supposedly semi-desert climate for fuck sake, that for what it’s worth, the relatively dry summers and butt-cracks used to contribute as the pitiful silver-lining of being in this hell-hole. The cherry on a very bad cake. But lately, no. Not this summer. Every morning begins with a slow poach inside a thick tarred and slimy cloud of grossness – think the colons of Jabba the Hutt or inside Donald Trump’s comb-over under a baseball cap – then, comes the almost guaranteed torrential rains around 7 pm that marinates everything in a wet mop-like humidity. Then the next day, it repeats. Did I mention that the pollution congeals even more enthusiastically in its special sense of sarcasm? Did I mention that it’s been like this, for weeks.
It’s an understatement to say that these days, I’m not happy much. All the recent riots of Instagrams flaunting farmer’s markets, elf-like human beings and basic living bliss, only make me bleed jealousy and really hateful thoughts. If I could stab your heirloom tomato in the abdomen right now, I’d gladly do so with gruesome gratifications and throw in all its cousins for good measure. It’s also safe to say that these days, I don’t go out much. The joy of grocery-runs has been reduced down a battle of mind-dragging chores, not to mention, that at any given seconds, the heaven could punish me with an acid-fueled downpour for daring optimistic thoughts. These days, I made do with what I have.